The nurse would have remonstrated, but Elsie had run off with the pail, and she really felt too ill to follow her.

The tide was low that morning, and the salt water lay beyond a good stretch of sand, so that Elsie had no light work before her; and after the sands, there was the steep beach to climb, and somehow when she was at the top her bucket seemed to have but little water in it. However, she toiled bravely to and fro, and Claude, who would not help at first, was touched by her industry. Of course, he would not own to such feelings, and indeed was too proud, saying to Elsie that she was spilling half her water! "Here, I'll show you how to carry a bucket!" And after that he worked with her, and with Claude's big bucket the pail was soon filled. By this time the nurse was better, and able to carry the pail across the road into the Red House.

"I'll never forget your kindness as long as I live," she gratefully declared. "I might have been your own sister by the way you've behaved to me."

"How funny of her to say that," whispered Elsie to her brother; "it seems as though she must have been at the catechising too. Perhaps she knows we ought to try to be all one in Christ."

And Claude, boy-like, only nodded his assent.

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CHESTNUTS.

Ben was visiting his cousin Hugh in the country, and they had been having a glorious time getting chestnuts. They started early in the morning, taking their dinners with them that they might have all day in the woods. There had been a sharp frost the night before, and the boys had a merry time as the wind rattled the brown chestnuts down on their heads. Bags and pockets were soon full to overflowing, and after eating their lunch by the brook they started for home.

"Now for a feast of roast chestnuts," said Ben, as they sat down by the fireplace, after the good warm supper which Hugh's mother had ready for them. "I will roast them and you can pull off the shells when they are done."

What fun it was to see the nuts jump around in the shovel Ben was using for a roaster, till their brown shells burst open with the heat!

"We will roast a whole bagful," said Hugh, "then there will be some for sister Lucy."

To be sure, Hugh burnt his fingers, and Ben dropped some chestnuts into the fire, but they only laughed the merrier. Lucy joined them after she had finished helping her mother with the work, and together they ate the chestnuts and played games till bedtime came, when they all agreed it had been one of the happiest days of their lives.

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A SPARROW STORY.

I and my little sisters are very fond of the sparrows who come to our garden to eat the crumbs that we throw out for them. We find our cat also likes them, but in a different way. We have been able to rescue several little ones from it, but have never been able to rear them, as they have generally died two or three days after. However, a little while ago we saved one poor little bird from pussy, and placed it in a cage and fed it, as it was too young to look after itself. The cage was placed in my bedroom, with the window open, and we suppose the chirrup of the little prisoner was heard by its parents, and we were pleased to see one of them fly into the room and carry it food. As they seemed so anxious, and we thought they knew better than we how to feed it, we placed the little thing on the window sill, watching near it to prevent it meeting with any accident, as it was too young to fly more than a few yards by itself. It had scarcely been there a few seconds before its mother flew down to it and chattered, as we thought scolding it, but we suppose she was only giving it directions, for the young one laid hold of the mother's tail with its little beak, and, with that assistance, was able to fly away.

We watched until it was out of sight, and were very glad to think that the parents had recovered their little one, about which they had shown such anxiety.

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THE SHOWMAN'S DOG.

"Poor little chap!" the showman said, "Your day at last is done, No more you'll fly at Punch's head, Or cause the Clown to run, Poor little chap! you're weak, too weak To join the Peepshow fun!"

"Out of the road I picked you up, 'Tis years and years ago, Your leg was badly injured, pup, Run over as you know. I bound the limb, and took you home, And soon you join'd the Show."

"Many a mile we've tramped, old dog, And many a place we've seen, And you where'er our feet might jog, Have faithful ever been. And rarely a rough or angry word Has come our lives between."

"Toby I wish that you could speak, One word in answer say, No! e'en to bark you are too weak, Or you would still obey. I know not what the show will do When you have passed away!"

Lovingly then poor Toby crept Towards his master's side And licked his hand—the Showman wept! For less things men have cried! And there full grateful to the last His old companion died.

E. Oxenford.

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TIDYING.

The children had played all through the long afternoon, and the room was turned topsy-turvy.

Toys were strewn all over the floor; furniture was pulled out of place; and the legs of the chairs were entangled with a long kite-tail that they had begun to make.

Presently Raymond said with a start, "Didn't you hear mother say, 'Put the room tidy'?"

"No," answered Ralph; "nobody spoke; it was only because you saw what a state the room was in that you thought you heard her; and it is very untidy; we had better put it straight."

"Yes, let us put it straight," said Raymond, "for I know I did hear mother tell us to."

So the two set to work and sorted the toys, and put them away in the cupboard; then they began to try to disentangle the twine of the kite-tail that was twisted round the chairs.

"Oh, dear! this is tiresome!" cried Raymond, as he bent his sunny head over the task.

"It does hurt my fingers!" said Ralph, knitting his dark brows.

Presently Raymond looked up with a beaming face.

"I know mother is looking at us all the time," he said; "I can feel she is smiling!"

Ralph looked round the room. "She is not here," he answered, "it is only the sunlight through the window."

"I know I can't see her," said Raymond again, "but I can feel she is smiling."

Then they were silent, and went on with their work.

* * * * *

"It is bedtime, little boys," said mother, coming in.

"But we have not finished," they cried together.

"Mother and nurse will do the rest," said mother. "You've both done very well."

"Mother, weren't you watching us all the time?" asked Raymond eagerly.

"Yes," she answered, smiling; "I was in the garden, and could see through the window my two little sons; Raymond was quick to obey when he heard my voice, and Ralph did what he knew I should wish, though he did not know I was able to see him."

And Mother put her arms round the children, and the sunny head and the dark head nestled softly on her bosom, and the eyelids drooped, for the day had been long and the sun had gone down.

"But I wish I had known you were there," murmured Ralph.



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CHARLIE THE CHATTERBOX.

"Do be quiet, Charlie!" "Leave off talking!" "Silence, sir!" These words were addressed to Charlie in vain, whether at home or school. He talked at meals, at class, in church; his little tongue was always at work, and yet it never seemed weary. Even if his mother had a headache, Charlie rattled on; if his father wanted to read or write quietly he had to go apart from Charlie, for there was no peace in the presence of the chatterbox. Of course he was a dunce, for how could he chatter and learn as well? And you may be sure he made plenty of mischief, for tongues that are always on the move do not keep to the exact truth sometimes when repeating what the ears have heard.

One day Grandfather said, "I really must teach that little tongue a lesson. If you can be silent for half an hour, Charlie, I will give you half-a-dollar." "Half-a-dollar! I'll earn it, grandfather." Charlie watched the clock and thought of tops and balls and kites and sweets and apples, and all the wonderful things half-a-dollar would buy; he had to keep silence till the clock had struck twelve, and just as the hand approached the hour he grew so excited with his success that he cried out, "There, I've done it! Please give me the money, grandfather." But Charlie never got that half-dollar, and I do not think such a chatterbox deserved it. You have two ears and one tongue, children; listen quietly, pay attention, but do not always make your voice to be heard, else other people may grow just a little tired of the sound.

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SILVIO AND FRANCESCO.

On the side of one of the vine-clad hills of Italy dwelt a poor man with a large family. Though he was a hard-working man, he could only earn enough to poorly support his children, and to give them an education was beyond his power. He was an intelligent man, and though he had grown up without even learning to read, he wanted his children to have the advantages of schools and books, and he decided to seek for them a home in America. He saved all the money he could from his meagre earnings to pay the expense of the voyage. It was a hard struggle, and there were many days of stern self-denial and stringent economy ere the required amount could be obtained. When one has an earnest purpose, and bends his energies to accomplish it, he is quite sure of success. It was thus with this Italian family. Both father and mother were united in carrying out one fixed purpose,—to give their four children the advantages of a land of free schools,—and though their struggles were hard, yet they were working for their loved ones, and love lightens heavy burdens. There always comes pleasure from what is done for the benefit of others.

When all was ready they embarked from Genoa one evening, as the sunset sent a radiant glow over mountain and valley.

Silvio and Francesco were the youngest of the four children. The two eldest boys, like their parents, were sad at leaving their youthful companions, and sat in the stern of the ship and watched the receding hills till the rosy light faded, and darkness shut out from view their native land forever.

Silvio was nine years old, and Francesco two years younger. They did not realize the journey which was before them, nor did they regret at leaving. They were charmed with the novelty of the scenes around them. They watched the sailors in their duties about the ship, and listened to the captain's stern orders. The harbor was gay with the lights of the many crafts, large and small, which were gliding about over the placid surface of the gulf. So quiet were the waters that one would never dream that they could ever be ruffled, or cause the voyager discomfort. As their ship glided out of the placid Gulf of Genoa into the Mediterranean Sea all on board were anticipating a quick and prosperous voyage, and a safe landing on the bright shores of America.

Alas, how uncertain is the future! A terrific storm arose when within a few days' sail of the American coast. The masts and rudder were carried away by the wind, and the hulk then drifted at the mercy of the waves. The captain and several of the crew were washed overboard in the first encounter with the gale, and the lifeboat, which many of the passengers took when it was believed the ship was sinking, was swamped, and all in it lost. A few others remained on the hulk, and stayed on deck in hopes to signal some passing vessel which had outridden the storm. One by one these were swept overboard, or died from exposure. Silvio and Francesco were so small that they were not allowed on deck. When the storm commenced they were sleeping in the forecastle, in the berth of a kind old sailor who had given them the use of it. His dog was their sleeping companion by night and playfellow by day. These three were secured below during the storm, and were forgotten during the excitement and distress on board. The parents of the boys were swept overboard on the first night of the storm, and their brothers were lost in the lifeboat, and their old sailor friend died from exposure and over-exertion on the second day of the storm. Thus they were bereft of both kindred and friend, and, though they were unconscious of their situation, they were drifting upon the ocean on a wave-tossed bark, with no living companion but the sailor's dog.

Three days thus they drifted on the merciless ocean, wondering why they were left alone in the forecastle; and when they called for help all the reply was the dashing of the waves against the shattered ship.

Fortunately, a large steamer which had withstood the storm saw the shattered hulk drifting upon the waves, and sent men on board to rescue any who might be found alive. All had been swept away, and desolation reigned on deck. To their surprise, on opening the forecastle they found the two boys and the sailor's dog.

These helpless and homeless ones they took to the ship. Sad indeed were they when they began to realize that their parents and brothers were lost. They had no kindred or friends, and knew not a word of the language of the Americans who were upon the steamer. They shed many sad tears when the feelings of their loneliness settled upon them, and they wished themselves in their own country, where a language was spoken which they could understand.

There is always sunshine behind the clouds, and their shadows were dispelled by a kind gentleman upon the steamer, who said he would care for them and give them a home.

He commenced to teach them to speak English while on the voyage, and amused them with various sports and games. Silvio, being the eldest, learned quicker than his little brother, but as soon as he had learned he taught Francesco.

When the steamer landed the kind gentleman sent them to board for a while with a family from their own country who could speak both English and Italian, where they soon learned to talk in both languages.

Silvio was a good object-teacher, and gave his little brother lessons.

He would introduce some game or sport as a means of communicating instruction. It was pleasing to see them together. They would sit by the fire in the Italian's cottage, with the old sailor's dog, which the gentleman who had befriended the children said should not be taken from them, and Silvio would teach his brother.

They learned to play "cratch cradle," and when they did this the names of every thing used were learned. When one is learning a new language it is word by word; so in this game they learned to count, and to name the words, such as hand, finger, string, cross, and others that suggested themselves in the course of the game. Some children call this game "cat's cradle," but it should be "cratch cradle." A cratch is a cross-legged crib from which cattle are fed. It is also the shape of a cradle, or child's sleeping-crib, and, as the strings take this shape upon the fingers, the game has received that name.

These boys learned very rapidly, and the gentleman who had befriended them soon took them from the Italian's cottage, and sent them to the best schools in America. Both became distinguished scholars. Silvio is now a celebrated artist, and Francesco a musician whose vocal and instrumental acquirements have charmed the largest audiences, and received the highest praise of the world. Both have visited their native country, and have pursued their studies among their own countrymen, but they have never heard of any of their own kindred. The gentleman who befriended them still lives to see the good results of his kind deed, and they, in return, look upon him with feelings of love and gratitude.

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THE LITTLE MILKMAID.

"Please, Grandmother, I can milk Daisy."

"There, child! Nonsense!" said the old woman crossly. "Daisy would kick thee and thy pail over in no time. We should lose our milk, and happen have thee to nurse as well."

"But Daisy likes me, Granny," pleaded the would-be milkmaid. "I never throw stones at her or pull her tail; she would not kick me. I know how to milk, don't I, Grandfather?"

"Eh, bless her, so she do!" returned a feeble voice from the bed in the corner of the kitchen. "It's a brave little lass, that it is! I'd sooner trust her than Tom, for all he's three years older."

Grandmother gave a reluctant consent, and forth went the little milkmaid, her bucket on her arm, and her dog Gypsy jumping about and inviting her to have a race with him. Play was a very good thing, and Susie dearly loved a romp, but this morning she shook her head, and told Gypsy he must wait until her task was safely over. She was very proud of Grandfather's confidence in her, and made up her mind to deserve it.

Susie looked like a part of the bright May morning as she tripped gayly down the pathway to the brook, brushing the dew off the grass and flowers with her bare little white feet, and singing a gay "good-morning" to the birds fluttering in and out of the bushes.

A kind little girl was Susie, loving all the living creatures about her moorland home, and loved by them. The birds knew better than to come within reach of Tom, but they hardly paused in their busy nest-building as Susie passed by; only singing a little more gayly than before, which was their way of welcoming her, so Susie said.

Grandfather's cottage was built on the top of a steep field. At the bottom a bubbling, noisy little brook went tumbling and bustling merrily over the stones, filling the sweet, warm air with a cheery song of its own. A plank served as a bridge across the stream; and as Susie walked steadily over it she noticed a fat, motherly old duck nestling down amongst the ferns and dock-leaves on the bank. Mother Duck uttered a startled and indignant "Quack, quack," as Gypsy jumped over her head and dashed headlong into the cool, bright water.

"Ah, Mrs. Duck," cried Susie merrily, "I see now where your eggs go! I shall pay you a visit presently; I can't stop now, because I am going a-milking."

The old duck looked after her with quite an air of understanding all about it, and gravely watched her run on towards the field where Daisy the cow stood waiting at the gate. Tom had forgotten all about milking-time, but Mistress Daisy had good reasons of her own for liking punctuality in such matters. So she poked her long white nose through the bars of the gate, and greeted Susie with a long, doleful complaint of the sad way in which she had been neglected that morning.

Perhaps it was Daisy's reproachful "Moo" which first made the little maid conscious that she had forgotten the milking-stool, but she now decided to do without it. The good old cow's temper must not be tried by any further delay, so down she knelt in the cool, dewy grass, and, carefully fixing the pail, began her task.

She found it not so easy as she expected, for milking requires practice, and some strength of fingers, and Susie had little of either. But Daisy was very good, and so the sweet, frothy milk rose higher and higher in the little pail, until at length the task was done. Daisy showed she thought so by suddenly beginning to walk away. The pail had a narrow escape then, but Susie got it safely out of the way, and began her homeward walk. Very steadily she carried the pail to the brook. There a surprise awaited her; while she had been milking some one had pulled away the plank, and thrown it down on the opposite bank. Wet feet are no hardship to little girls who wear no shoes and stockings. Susie soon tucked up her dress, and walked carefully through the bubbling stream, taking good heed of the stones at the bottom. She got across safely, and began to climb the steep, narrow path leading to the cottage. On either side the grass was long, sometimes almost meeting across the path. All in a moment her foot caught in some hidden trap, and down she fell! Alas for the poor little milkmaid! Her pail was upset, and the milk—the precious milk—ran hither and thither amongst the primroses and daisies, and finally trickled down into the brook.

"This comes of sending babies a-milking," said Grandmother, who had seen the disaster from the cottage door. "Come in," she added crossly, as the distressed little maid came slowly up the path. "Thou'rt a bad, careless lass, and shall have no breakfast. Catch me sending thee a-milking again."

"Wait a bit, Grandmother," said the old man, in his feeble, quavering voice. "Did not I hear Tom say that he'd teach the little one to meddle with his job? You must go down the path and see for yourself if it is not one of his tricks. Something must have tripped the child up."

Grandmother could not refuse to go down the path, but she went unwillingly. Tom was her favorite, and she did not wish to find him out in the wrong. But when she came to the milk-dyed spot, and found the long grass tied together across the path, she could no longer deny that the child in fault was not little Susie. As she slowly wended her way back to the cottage, she felt not only angry with naughty, idle Tom, but grieved at her own lack of justice to the willing little milkmaid.

Tom's unkind and revengeful conduct did not this time go unpunished; but his grandmother's over-indulgence had sadly spoilt his character, and although she strove hard to remedy the evil, it is doubtful if he will ever learn to be as obedient and unselfish as his good little sister Susie.

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MR. BOBOLINK.

"I wish I could catch a bobolink," said Samuel.

"Let us try to-morrow and see if we cannot catch one in a box trap," said his brother Robert.

"That will be real fun," said little Maggie. And so the three children talked the matter over, and made plans for the morrow.

"You must help me in the morning," said their father. "Samuel must drop the corn in the hills for the hired man to cover, Robert will drop the beans, and Maggie must put in the pumpkin-seed. We shall have it all done by ten o'clock, and then you can play the rest of the day. If a flock of bobolinks comes along you may be able to catch one, though they are very shy, and do not stop long in any one place."

The next morning the sun rose radiantly in the eastern sky, and climbed up among the golden clouds, and all the early birds joined in a glad song of welcome. The robin chanted from the lofty branches of the elm; the bluebird, with plumage brighter than the bluest sky, glided in and out among the apple-trees, and enlivened the scene by its occasional joyous song; the red linnet whistled and chattered in the shrubbery, and the sparrow chirped in the hedge. All around seemed full of life and joy.

The bobolink swung from the highest branches, and poured out his ecstatic feelings in thrilling song.

The children went to the fields amid all this morning music, and tried to translate the song of each bird into English.

The robin chanted, "Kill him! cure him! Kill him! cure him! Give him physic!"

Who he wanted treated in this manner they could not tell, but that seemed to be the language of his song.

The voice of the linnet or bluebird could not be interpreted easily, but the bobolink spoke very plainly, and seemed personal in his remarks, which were evidently intended for the eldest boy; for he said over and over again, "Samuel! Samuel!—Samuel, planting, planting. Samuel! Samuel! planting for bobolink! bobolink!"

This chattering and singing were kept up all the forenoon, and the children resolved that when their play-time came in the afternoon they would set some traps and try to secure one of these saucy songsters, who had been talking so much to Samuel during the forenoon.

Soon as dinner was over the three hurried off to the sheep pasture, where, among the maple-trees, a large flock of bobolinks were evidently resting a day or two on their journey towards Canada, that they might feast on the scattered grains of an old wheat-field near by. The children took a few handfuls of wheat, which they scattered upon the ground; and, as Maggie could sew better than the boys, she strung some grains of wheat on a small thread. This was tied to a slender prop which held up the cover of the trap, which was made by putting four blocks together in the shape of a box. In it was a handful of wheat. When all was ready the children hid behind some shrubbery and watched and waited the result. They whispered to each other, and laid plans concerning what could be done with the bird after he was caught.

Samuel said, "Sell him. I read of bobolinks being sold at bird-stores in the city for two or three dollars each. We could get money enough to buy snap-crackers and fireworks for next Fourth of July."

"Oh! I wouldn't do that," said Robert.

"Nor I," said little Maggie. "I should rather go without any money for Fourth of July. Let's keep him, and put him in Dicky's old cage, and teach him to sing."

"Perhaps you are counting your game before 'tis caught," said Robert. "There are no birds near your trap yet."

Just then a large flock had discovered the scattered grain, and flew down near the trap. Each one of the children watched in breathless silence. Several birds entered the box, and chattered and feasted, but the cover did not fall, and the time the children were waiting in silence seemed very long. At length an old, strong bird caught up a grain attached to the string, and gave it a violent jerk. Out came the little prop, and down went the heavy cover, and a jolly old singer was entrapped. He screamed and fluttered, and his frightened companions flew away over the distant meadow.

The children ran to the trap, delighted with the capture they had made, and each one got down on his knees and peeped into the trap. Sure enough, there was Mr. Bobolink. He had on his black dress-coat and white waistcoat and breeches, and a pretty yellow necktie. They all thought him very handsome, and they laid plans for having him put into a nice brass cage at the front of the house, where they could every day hear his cheerful song. They were all delighted with their prize, and thoughts of much enjoyment went through their minds.

"Take him out carefully," said Robert, as Samuel knelt down to open the box.

"Don't hurt him," said Maggie; and Samuel raised the cover to put in his hand.

There was a flutter and a scream, and Mr. Bobolink flew away, and soared high into the air, and soon joined his travelling companions on their way to Canada.

The children were much disappointed, and when they told their father he laughed heartily, and repeated the old proverb:—

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the air."

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MIDSUMMER MORNING.

In my garden hear the lark Carol aloft; Hear the dove her matins sing In answer soft. The night has fled away; Good morrow! lovely day.

Dawn has touched with fairy finger All things near, Left a dewdrop on each blossom Like a tear Sing! merry thrush, on high To the breaking summer sky.

Cobwebs, quiver in the sunlight Sparkling bright, Daisies ope their starry petals To the light. So with a rosy dawn Comes up this summer morn!

Horatia Browne.

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HOW TODDIE WAS FOUND.

Old Jones, the sexton, toiled slowly up to the Rectory one winter morning. He had a sad tale to tell, and the ground was heavy with snow, and poor old Jones's heart was full of a great sorrow.

The Rectory lay cosily among the sheltering trees, and gleamed warm and cheerful beneath the gloomy skies. Mr. Chillingworth, the Rector, was a good man, and greatly beloved by the people in the parish of Redhall.

Old Jones, as I have said, was the sexton; and he tried his best, with very small success, to keep all the village boys in awe of him. He always went, with them, by the name of "old red Johnnie," for he wore a red woollen comforter through winter's cold and summer's heat.

He had a champion in one boy, however, called Toddie Banks; for you see poor Toddie was an orphan, and old Jones had been very kind to him when he was just a wee toddling laddie, had taken him to his own home, and treated him like a son, for the old man had neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, so Toddie was all of them put together to him.

And now Toddie had been missing for a whole day and night, and Jones had no doubt he had fallen over a precipice, or been lost in some deep snowdrift, for, you must know, Toddie was a bit of a naturalist, and used to take long walks in search of any curiosities he might find.

The poor old man had never been in his bed the whole of the previous night, but had been searching everywhere, helped by some kindly neighbors.

When Mr. Chillingworth understood the whole story, he at once volunteered to go in search of Toddie, accompanied by his splendid Newfoundland dog, Neptune.

"Cheer up, Jones," he said in his kindly way. "Neptune and I will do our best, with the blessing of God, to find your darling. Go home now, and have everything prepared, in case we find him overcome in the snow."

Neptune was perfectly aware that he and his master were to find Toddie, so he bounded on gayly before Mr. Chillingworth. They had not proceeded many yards before Neptune suddenly stopped, and, listening intently, galloped furiously in the direction of a stream that in summer time was a favorite haunt of Toddie's. On reaching the water he stood still, and, uttering a long, sorrowful howl, remained, evidently waiting for his master.

Mr. Chillingworth hastened up; and there was Toddie, lying to all appearance quite dead. In scrambling up the river bank he had been apparently overcome by the deadly cold and sleep from which few ever waken to life again. He had a bunch of scarlet berries in his hand, and it was pathetic to see the cold stiff fingers still clutching their treasure. Being so near the Rectory, Mr. Chillingworth just lifted the lad and bore him rapidly to his house. What was his joy, after half an hour's untiring effort to revive him, to see Toddie slowly open his eyes, and, by the time old Jones and his neighbors reached the Rectory, Toddie was able to sit up and relate his experiences. It was as the Rector thought; in reaching after the berries he fell, and remembered nothing afterwards. Poor old Jones and Toddie were heroes ever after that, and I am glad to say the village boys ceased to call him "old red Johnnie."

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THE HORSE

SUGGESTED BY A LITTLE GIRL OF FOUR.

Oh a strange and curious thing is a horse, Believe or not, as you choose. For he takes it quite as a matter of course That he goes to bed in his shoes.

And his shoes, which are iron and not soft leather, Are nailed to his feet with pegs And he falls asleep without minding the weather, As he stands upright on his legs

And his hair doesn't grow in the proper place But out of his neck instead And his ears are not at the side of his face, But stand on the top of his head.

F. W. H.

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THE TINKER'S VAN.

"Ronald! Ronald! our van has come! John saw it go past the gate whilst we were in school."

"Has it!" exclaimed Fred Norton, no less excited at the news than his brother; "then let's go down at once and have a look at it."

Off ran the two little fellows, and were soon in the village; and there, sure enough, drawn up in a side street, was the van of a travelling tinker. The old horse had been taken out of the shafts and was standing patiently on one side, while the tinker's wife, with her baby in her arms, walked slowly up and down, casting from time to time an anxious look up the street.

Her sunburnt face beamed with a hearty smile as the two boys rushed up to her.

"Here you are, young gentlemen!" she said, with evident delight; "I was looking out for you. I thought you'd see us go by; but my old man, he says, 'Susan, what are you thinking of? Those young gentlemen have forgotten you by this time, for it's six months more or less since we last passed by here.'"

"We haven't forgotten you," said little Ronald indignantly. "How could I forget when you were so kind to me? I could not have got home that day I sprained my foot, and then your van came up, and you jumped out and carried me in, and bathed my foot, and brought me home. Why—why—" stammered the little fellow in his eagerness, "I should be a pig if I forgot you."

"Step inside, sirs," said the woman, quite confused by Ronald's gratitude; "I want you to see how beautiful the clock looks that your mamma gave me. It goes just splendid; my old man is proud of it; it never loses a minute, and yet it gets many a jolt."

The children needed no second invitation. The van was a paradise to them, and they ran up the steps and looked at everything, and everything seemed charming. They longed to possess such a treasure, and thought the tinker and his wife must be the happiest of mortals.

"I should like to live here always," said Fred, as he and Ronald stood at the door of the van and looked out at the scene around them. "It's so jolly free," continued the boy, "so far better than always being in one house; and the cat there, and the cocks and hens, and old Dobbin—I'd much rather look at things like that than at the maps and pictures on our schoolroom walls."

"Ah! but you don't know all, sir," said the woman, shaking her head. "I was born in a van, and have always lived in one, but I don't want my little laddie here to lead the life," and she danced the crowing baby in her arms as she spoke. "I hope, by and by, we shall have a little cottage of our own and settle down, and my boy can go to school and learn to read his Bible, which is more than his mother can do, for I never had a day's schooling in my life."

"Can't you read?" said little Ronald in astonishment. "I'll come every day that you stay here and teach you. I'll begin to-night!" and before another word could be said he had darted out of the van and was up the street and out of sight, returning in a very few minutes with a large picture-book, out of which he himself had learned to read.

Ronald was a wise little fellow to have brought a picture-book; for such a work of art had never been seen by the woman before, and if reading was only looking at pictures like that she felt she might manage it after all.

She was by no means a stupid scholar, and Ronald was so earnest a little teacher that the progress made was really astonishing. The tinker found a good many jobs in the village, and stayed nearly a fortnight, and by that time Susan could spell little words very nicely, and no longer read a-s-s, donkey, as, misled by the picture, she had done at the beginning of the lessons.

Ronald's mother gave the woman a large print Bible with a great many pictures in it; and when next year the tinker's van again visited the village, Susan was delighted to be able to exhibit her progress, and slowly and reverently she read the parable of the Lost Sheep.

"I read that to my old man most nights," she said; "his father was a shepherd, and he knows all about sheep. Oh, Master Ronald!" said the woman, suddenly changing her tone, "I do bless you for putting it into my head to learn to read."

Certainly Ronald was a happy boy that day.



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A LITTLE MAN.

Bobby was not quite six years old, but he thought himself quite a man, and a very strong man too. He was a sturdy little fellow, and as he never caught cold, his mother allowed him to run about without shoes and stockings when the weather was warm and dry.

Bobby's mother was always a little afraid of his being hurt. She had only two children—Lucy, who was twelve, and Bobby—and she was sometimes very anxious lest Bobby should come to some harm when he would work among the men. She also forbade him the use of knives and all sharp instruments. This was a real grief to Bobby, as the men knew it, and would sometimes tease him, and it was then so difficult to pretend to himself that his knife wasn't in his pocket, as he could have done for his own satisfaction.

One day in the spring, when the laurel hedge was being cut, one of the men offered to lend Bobby a knife, and, without a thought of his mother's wishes, Bobby took it, and began cutting in a great hurry. Alas! after a few boughs had come off, Bobby tried to cut a thicker one, which he had to hold down with his left hand, so that when the knife slipped he cut his third finger rather badly. He ran at once to Lucy with the knife in his hand, and then dropped it on the ground close to his bare toes. In his thoughtlessness he might have cut his foot also if Mother had not come out and picked up the knife. She was more sorry than angry at Bobby's disobedience, but the boy was more careful to obey his mother after that, and among the presents on his next birthday there was a capital knife from Mother, but given on condition that at first it should only be used when his father was present, and could show him what ought to be done with it. Bobby is a very happy boy now, because no one can tease him, as he has that precious knife of his very own.

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BED TIME.

I

I've been so happy all the day, And now its hours are over, Down by the meadows I have played, And all amongst the clover. And now tis time to go to rest, Within my bed so cosy. And soundly sleep the long night thro; Until the sun gleams rosy

II

Good night, dear little silver stars, Come to my window peeping, And shed your pretty light above, And watch whilst I am sleeping. Good night, Good night you pretty flowers, I love you all so dearly, Now close your eyes, and gently sleep, Until the moon shines clearly.

III

I've said my prayers at Mother's knee, To ask the Shepherd's keeping, He has so many little lambs, To tend whilst they are sleeping Yet surely I may go to rest, Without a fear or sorrow, I know that he will watch o'er all, Till sunlight gleams to-morrow.

M. I. Hurrell.

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Transcriber's Notes:

1. Nonstandard punctuation and spelling variants in poetry blocks have been retained. 2. Full-page illustrated poetry or images that interrupted a story have been relocated to the inter-story break. 3. Decorative illustrations without captions were not placed in the text-only version of the e-text. 4. The poem "Winter" in this book is reproduced here as printed and differs from the original.

THE END